MR PARLETT DOT COM

1

Pete watches the boy through the open doorway, he watches that hard-done-by streak of piss poncing around in the kitchen like he owns the fucking place, making himself a cup of tea, thinking he’s being sly but he’s not, oh no.

Didn’t ask him if he wanted a hot-drink though did he, selfish cunt. Fucking useless anyway; no matter how many times Pete tells him he just doesn’t get it―one and a half spoons of Nescafe, and the same amount of coffee-mate. Make sure you let the water sit a minute after the kettle’s boiled too―boiling water kills the flavour―then pour and stir; fucking lovely. Sugar? Thanks but no thanks―he’s sweet enough already.

Look at the boy, like a sack of shit tied up in the middle; scruffy little bastard needs to buck his fucking ideas up, that one.

Pete hears the cupboard open and that tell-tale mousy rustle of the fucking thief going for his Kit-Kats, he never finished his fucking dinner either; just chewing the meat up then either putting it at the side of his plate or else going out to the toilet and trying to flush it away―yeah, Pete’s wise to him. Fucking lovely casserole wasted on that little rat, think about all those less fortunate in the world that’d give their eye teeth to have what he does. Spoilt, that’s his trouble and Pete’s going to have to have serious words with the boy’s Mother about this, he doesn’t have any fucking respect, and after all he does for him.

The sneaky little prick closes the cupboard door, picks up his cup of tea and slouches past; the Kit-Kat hidden at his side―the boy must think Pete came up on the last fucking banana boat.

‘Didn’t make your Mother a cuppa then?’ asks Pete.

The boy croaks a reply, ‘No… she’s drinking.’

Jesus Christ, it’s only Coronation Street time and she’s on the bottle already. No fucking wonder with a useless little shit like that for a son, the torment he causes her; Pete’s surprised she puts up with it, no wonder she’s so fucking up-tight and on-edge.

He lets the matter of the Kit-Kat slide for now―he’ll take him up on it when his Mother’s in here, ‘Give you just enough rope to hang yourself…’ says Pete softly and the boy hears but retreats carefully.

So Pete rolls himself a nice fat roll-up and presses play on the Star Trek video, he’s watching them back to back, well fucking trying to at least; this is the one where Kirk, Spock, Bones and this bird with lovely legs are being held prisoner on a planet by some energy field, they find some other stranded bloke and guess what―the energy’s in love with the bloke and is keeping him trapped; he can’t leave, her little toy―sound fucking familiar?

Pete muses that at least the cloudy bitch let’s him talk to the others; them aliens are more humane than us humans, he can tell you that much, and people wonder why Kirk keeps fucking those green skinned tarts. He gives a good speech to, almost brings a tear to Pete’s eye but he’s no poof though, no way, nothing wrong with blokes crying, just not over birds or if they’re in pain; that William Shatner, he’s bloody good he is, Pete’s well into this episode.

Out in the conservatory Pete’s son is whistling at the budgies, he looks up out of his reverie and pauses the tape to watch him, ‘Don’t open the lid on their nesting boxes my darling, you’ll upset the Mummy,’ he tells him, that one’s as good as gold he is, keeps himself to himself, no trouble at all.

‘Okay Daddy,’ he says, smiling; cute little sod, takes after Pete, but he’s very, what’s the word, inquisitive; his Mother’s family are always sticking their fucking noses in so that must be where he got it from.

Pete can’t help but look out at his birds; lovely creatures they are, budgies – at least you know where you stand with them. He started off with Joey and just kind of got carried away, such a rewarding hobby though, a real joy; when those eggs hatch he feels it’s like they’re his babies. He was supposed to be selling them off but, you know, he just can’t bear to part with them; they’re flock birds anyway and happy as Larry out in the aviary.

Pete will pick out a good pair, a nice mix of colours so it’s always a surprise to see how the chicks turn out. Each brood will have about four or five eggs and two-and-half weeks later they start hatching. They’re excellent parents, budgies are, some work so hard feeding their young that they starve themselves; and guess what, the chicks are fully grown in six weeks, a fucking miracle it is.

Hang on, what the fuck’s this―that fucking cat’s out there again, prowling about Pete’s aviaries, that cunt’s had it this time, he’ll have to be slow though cos the fucker knows him, that one ain’t thick.

Pete always keeps a .177 in the bureau, just in the bottom drawer underneath his receipts, not locked up like the Browning, gotta keep that fucking quiet―political correctness gone mad that is―but God help any cunt who tries burgling this house. Pete doesn’t care what the old bill say; it’s his God given right to protect his property and family.

Pete creeps round into the kitchen so he’s on the flea-ridden bastard’s blind side, the patio door’s open and there’s a clear shot, it’s just too fucking easy. He takes aim ready to send a lead pellet at 500fps straight in the back of its mangy fucking head; he pulls the trigger but the cunt fucking turns―don’t fucking ask him how but he misses and the bastard shoots away like lightning through the gap between the conifer and the fuchsias, lucky cunt.

Not so lucky the last cat, he did use the Browning that time; easy enough to improvise a sound suppressor if you know what you’re doing, it’s still loud but it doesn’t sound like a gunshot; it’s a decent neighbourhood so nobody’s any the wiser. The fucking mess though, Pete smiles to himself, remembering how the cat―well it must’ve only been a kitten cos it wasn’t that big―just fucking splattered all over the patio; took him fucking ages to clean that shit up; there’s still a stain. He told the wife he dropped a tin of paint when he was clearing out the shed, not that he should have to fucking make excuses, but anything for a quiet life.

His watch goes off so it’s time to take the pills again, he’s got a good little system going, everything in one little pill box, divided up into days and times; he swallows his dose down in one, no water needed. You should see the boy taking a fucking tablet, he tries to skive off school, saying he’s sick; he stays in the toilet and Pete can hear him sticking his fingers down his throat, little fucking pussy, afraid of a little hard work that’s his problem.

His Mother gives him a paracetamol and you know what he does, he fucking chews it; It’s a fucking sight, Pete swears to God. So they pack him off to school, can’t hang about the house, stop with those crocodile tears; Pete’ll give the boy something to really cry about.

You’ve got to be cruel to be kind.

Pete’s son wanders in, he’s nearly nine now and big for his age, ‘Want to watch Star Trek with Daddy?’ he asks.

‘No, I wanna play Nintendo.’

‘Okay, but not too late now, I’ll come and tuck you in in an hour.’

‘Okay Daddy.’

That’s what Pete’s talking about―respect. The boy had it all too, he could’ve had anything he wanted but Pete’s afraid to say that that good-for-nothing’s pissed on his own chips there, oh yes. Used to have two Dad’s, now all he has is an excuse for one.

 

2

It’s Saturday morning and the boy’s Father’s late, it just fucks everyone up because Pete was taking his son to a display of old army vehicles on Southsea Common and he wanted to get him there early so his son could get a tank ride.

The boy’s tying his shoelaces, making a right pigs ear of it, doing them the wrong way, over instead of under, fucking useless Pete tells him, they’re the wrong way.

The boy’s looking all mournful, he’s spent all his pocket money on Christ knows what, probably drugs at that school, and he’s asking for more, Pete tells him it’s about time his loser Father put his hand in his fucking pocket, his Mother isn’t a fucking bank and besides, it’s not her money, it’s Pete’s fucking money he’s stealing. Don’t even fucking mention the Father to Pete, no alimony, no child support, hasn’t even seen the boy for fucking years and expects he can just swan around here like nothing’s happened.

There’s a beep from outside and Pete opens the front door and the Father’s sat there in his shitty brown Stanza; he doesn’t get out, ‘Alright, Pete,’ he calls over, his elbow resting out the window and his collar up like he thinks he’s worth a damn.

‘Alright mate,’ says Pete and the boy pushes past him, runs over and jumps in the passenger seat.

‘Back about six mate,’ says the fucking loser Father.

‘Alright, drive safe,’ says Pete, insincerely, and swings the door closed.

 

3

The wife’s going out with her sister for the day so Pete’s going to drop her down Commercial Road then onto the Common with his son. She’ll probably come back laden with shit from Marks and fucking Sparks she doesn’t need and Pete can’t afford; living above her means he tells her and she starts with the mouth so he gives her a look that puts her in her place and she quietens down.

While Pete waits for his wife to get her arse in gear he makes a tin of roll-ups and finishes his coffee. He eventually gets her in the car and off they go, some cunt cuts him up on Fratton Road and he nearly doesn’t bother to brake just to ram the prick, teach the cunt a lesson; if he was driving an old banger he fucking would’ve and all.

The wife wants dropping outside Argos and sure enough that neurotic bitch of a sister’s already there. Pete says cheerio while some cunt bus driver starts beeping―getting all lairy behind him―the cunt can wait; Pete’s on a fucking knife edge here, it’ll just take one more cunt like that cunt to push him over the fucking edge.

But at least the Common’s pretty cosy, Pete tells his son what all the different trucks and cars were for, they even have some old firearms all chained up so he has a go with them and Pete shows him how to steady a rifle and look down the sight. Then he teaches his son how to hold a handgun, cup the magazine underneath your right hand, same principle as the rifle, relax, align your target, exhale, squeeze the trigger, click. He’s a natural, you can see it in his eyes, in his stance; trouble is he’s on about joining the fucking Navy. Pete takes him aside and explains that all matlows are fucking poofs and if he goes to sea then that’s exactly what he’ll turn out like.

Pete gets him a ride on the tank―well it’s only an APC but it’s all the same to him. They have ice-cream and then walk up to the fair, the camouflage baseball cap Pete bought for his son is too big and the wind keeps nearly taking it; not like the boy, probably wouldn’t be able to get a hat big enough for his big empty wog head.

They eat at the Wimpy bar, Pete’s s treat like, just don’t tell your brother―our little secret, he says, give the boy an inch and he’ll take a mile, end up just like his Father―good thing he’s here to knock some fucking sense into him before it’s too late.

They get back to the house about seven and the boy’s waiting outside, Pete swears he sees him throw something down the alleyway when he saw the car coming, he’ll have a look later, you see if he don’t. Pete asks him what he’s doing here, where’s his Father? and the boy says, ‘My Dad had to go, he had things to do.’

My Dad… that’s about as funny as a fucking thalidomide snooker tournament that is; that prick’s no Father. Pete used to tell him how lucky he was, to have two Dad’s, but like he says, the boy’s pissed on his own chips―it’s his own fucking fault.

‘How long you been here?’ asks Pete.

‘I don’t know, I’m not sure.’

‘Well where’s your watch, that one your Mother bought you?’

‘I don’t know… I, I lost it.’

‘You lost it?’ the lying bastard’s gone and swapped it at school hasn’t he, Pete can read him like a fucking book; either that or had it nicked, can’t fucking stand up for himself―bastard useless, ‘You’re fucking useless you are,’ Pete tells him, and the boy’s eyes go all misty like he wants to cry. Things would’ve been different if he was Pete’s boy he wouldn’t have brought up such a prissy little fucking pansy.

‘This is why you’re waiting outside,’ Pete tells him, ‘this is why you don’t have your own key, you just can’t be trusted, not with anything.’

 

4

Saturday Night is bingo night down the Moneyfields Club and the wife’s all in a good mood from her day out with her sister. Well that’s probably half of it―let’s face it that half-empty bottle of Smirnoff behind the wireless was probably new today―she thinks Pete don’t know her little hiding places but everyone seems to think he’s some kind of idiot; you can’t pull the wool over his eyes the silly cow. That daft Paky bitch doctor of hers has her on these fucking pills too, fucking waste of time sitting there feeling sorry for herself, she needs to get back to work, there never used to be depression and all these disorders, full of excuses she is; back in his day they just used to get on with it, people have it too fucking easy these days.

Now her sister’s husband, he’s got the right idea, nip the drinking in the bud early, put your fucking foot down and tell the weak crutch-dependant bitches you won’t stand for it. They just haven’t got any willpower, that’s it, but that bloke, he’s got the right idea, otherwise where’s it gonna stop? Pete’s just too fucking nice, that’s his problem, and when you’re nice then people’ll just walk all fucking over you.

Pete’s son’s playing his Nintendo again, fucking fry your brain that will he tells him, rescue enough princesses when you’re in your prime he tells him and winks with a grin.

The wife’s still fucking getting ready so Pete pours himself a brandy and puts on Star Trek. This is the one where they find an old space probe that’s just killed four billion people, so they beam it on board and it ends up killing Scotty.

‘He’s dead Jim…’

Pete fucking loves old Bones. What makes him laugh is that the probe wipes Uhura’s mind, ‘That unit is a woman,’ says Spock. ‘A mass of conflicting impulses,’ explains the probe. Well Pete fucking nearly wet himself, millions of light years away in space and this machine understands women within seconds; he loves this programme―fucking timeless.

You know what they do then, to Uhura, they just re-educate her, teach her from the beginning, well Christ, that’s what the wife needs, some space-probe to come wipe her clean so Pete can start again from scratch; a body like Nurse Chapel and one of them short little skirts wouldn’t go amiss either―know what I’m saying?

Oh, don’t worry―the probe thinks Kirk’s its creator and brought Scotty back to life.

It’s just at the good bit when the boy walks in all fucking tentative and Pete knows that he’s been up to no good―it’s written all over his face―so he pauses the video and ask him what he’s up to, he says he’s just getting a cup of tea. Pete stubs out his rolly and says, ‘Then why you looking so guilty, what’ve you done now?’

‘What?… I…

‘Don’t say fucking what say pardon,’ Pete tells him, manners don’t cost a thing do they.

‘I… nothing, I haven’t done nothing.’

Pete nearly picks him up again on his grammar, nearly picks him up off his chickenshit legs and tosses him against the GOD DAMN WALL, when his son walks in all red faced and pissed off, ‘What the hell have you done now boy?’ shouts Pete immediately.

The boy, rooted to the spot, says nothing.

‘What’s wrong son?’

Pete’s son launches forward, and the boy responds by batting away and retreating from his attack, ‘I didn’t do anything I just… he was being rough and…’ he shrieks.

‘Did I fucking speak to you boy?!, screams Pete, spitting and shaking. You’ll speak when spoken to and not before!’

His son―his rage at the boy held in check by a fearful respect of his Father―tells him how the boy wouldn’t give him back the controller to his games machine, they struggled, it broke and then the boy hit him.

‘You know how much that damn thing cost?’ screams Pete at the worthless little bastard, ‘you’re no better than a fucking animal!’

Just then his Mother comes in the door, ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’ she shouts, the boy’s crying and Pete’s seething, his muscles tense as if he’s ready to pounce any second.

‘But he hit me first, and it was my turn… I’d nearly completed the level―’ starts the ratfuck…

‘Share, you never knew how to fucking share did you, you’re a selfish, worthless little boy and you’re going to end up just like your useless good-for-nothing Father.’

The boy looks terrified but Pete can see the defiance in him, the anger he know the boy couldn’t control, ‘I’ve told you before,’ says Pete, ‘look at you, you’re gonna end up like that young bloke in the paper who killed his boss, a plank of wood with nails in it, It’s written all over your face you violent little bastard, I can read you like a fucking book.’

‘You…’ he begins, he’s even got his fists clenched, don’t make Pete laugh, he’d put him through the fucking wall, ‘You’re a bloody idiot!’

‘WHAT?’ that’s fucking it now, but his Mother stands in front of them, her short term fears outweighing the reason of standing up to Pete, she starts screaming at him.

‘You say you’re sorry, right now you tell him you’re sorry… DO IT!’

‘No!’ shouts the boy at her and Pete swears he’s gonna get the cunt right now and he makes his move but the boy darts out of the room and slams the door so hard Pete thinks the glass is gonna smash.

Pete leaps after him, not so fast on his gammy leg but fast enough for that little bastard, the wife tries to stop him but he pushes her off into the sideboard; he swears if any of his Royal Doulton plates are broke she’ll fucking pay for that; up the stairs and the boy’s locked himself in the bathroom.

‘Open this door, open this door right now!’ Pete’s shaking with rage, ‘I won’t have locked doors in my house you hear! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!’

The little prick sobs in defiance at me and then the final straw, ‘Piss off!’

Oh that’s it now, you’ve fucking had it now you lairy fucking bastard.

It’s a simple lock so it only takes Pete a couple of good slams with his shoulder to break it; inside the boy’s sat there on the toilet quivering like a pussy, ‘I’m an idiot am I?’ shouts Pete and gives him a good one to the top of his head, ‘tell me to piss off will you?’ and he cracks the boy in the hand that’s covering his face, ‘speak back to ME will you?!’, a few more about his ear and that’ll fucking teach him, Pete begins to move away and the boy starts to lower his guard so he gets a good clout in and the boy hits his head on the wall. His Mother rushes in to stop them but by then Pete’s done, ‘Let that be a fucking lesson to you boy, it’s high time you learned some fucking respect in this house!’

Yeah―that’ll give that little bastard something to think about.

 

5

Pete conscientiously lays out the raffle tickets on the table, an even, parallel and equal space between each strip of five. It’s something of a ritual to splash out on the meat raffle and those pork chops did look fucking good this week.

That fat bloated cunt calls out he’s got another line on the bingo and Pete curses the boy, coming up and asking for another coke, ‘You’ve just had one,’ he tells him, ‘why can’t you make it last like your brother?’

‘But he got an Orangina and there’s more in the bottle―’

‘HOUSE!’ booms Pete―half standing up off his chair and waving his ticket in the air; the caller holds up the 88 ball and repeats the number. Nice fucking result, nearly missed those two fat ladies.

‘Look you’re not getting another drink, wait til the interval,’ says the boy’s Mother, then Pete sees out the corner of his eye she slips him a 50p. Pete’s had a fucking guts full of this undermining of his authority but he says nothing, not wanting the bitch to sully his jubilance at the full-house, and the forty odd quid in winnings.

He’s a bit dry himself, trouble is they can’t pull a pint of Guinness to save their fucking lives in here, he tells them every time but they pour it like it’s lager; he’s too fucking polite, that’s his trouble.

Looking over his shoulder into the family room Pete can see heads bobbing about, running about the pool table or some shit. The boy’s got himself some girl he talks to in there, she’s older than him though and what the fuck would any girl see in him anyway. She’s pretty fucking dirty looking, give her a year or two and she’ll ripen up nicely, too good for that useless ugly Paky-skinned bastard.

‘Two little ducks…’

‘QUACK, QUACK,’ shouts Pete along with the room, slashing neatly through his 22, careful not to mark over the sides of the box.

When the interval comes Pete goes to the bar, the wife’s on double vodka and lemonades, no fucking surprise there, so he decides to move over to shorts to get into the spirit of things, no pun intended. They don’t have Bells so he opts for a Teachers with a Kronenbourg, he spots the fat cunt Father of that girlfriend of the boy’s and nods just a polite hello but he takes this as a conversation starter and waddles up to Pete, ‘Kids seem to be having fun,’ he says amiably.

‘Yeah they do, they do, let me know if there’s any trouble from you know who.’

Fat Cunt frowns at Pete, ‘What do you mean? Your eldest? Oh they’re just having fun that’s all.’

‘Don’t make me fucking laugh, mate,’ says Pete, ‘and let me get one thing straight, I’ve got one son in that room,’ he downs his Teachers, too much fucking ice, ‘and one bastard―he ain’t mine, can’t you see from his skin? He’s like a fucking Paky.’

Fat Cunt looks nervous, ‘Erm sorry,’ he says, ‘I just thought―’

‘Well you thought wrong.’

As Pete turns to set down his drained whisky glass and pick up his pint he hears: ‘So is the Father a, erm…’

‘A what? A Paky? Nah mate, his Father’s white as your arse and twice as ugly, the boy’s some kind of fucking throwback to Arab times,’ Pete laughs at this, fat cunt doesn’t.

‘You don’t talk like this around him do you?’ he asks, what fucking business it is of his Pete doesn’t know but he’s in a good mood and needs a break from the catatonic bitch with his 24 karats around her finger so he replies.

‘Sometimes mate, when he needs to hear it.’

‘But why make him feel bad about his skin colour, I mean, if his Father’s English…’

‘Oh I get it, you’re one of these bleedin heart liberal types aren’t you, hands around the fucking world; if I’m raising a monkey then he should be told he swings from branches, know what I’m saying?’

‘But mate, how can you say that, it’s just skin colour―’

‘Oh yeah and you think if you went to their country you’d get the same treatment?’

‘But if his parents are both… but… but for many this is their county―’

‘So you’re happy for good honest citizens to get swamped, to not feel safe in their homes?’

‘But many… Pakistanis were born here…’ Fat Cunt’s looking confused.

‘Yeah but that don’t make them English does it, all these sand-niggers and coons too, fuck em, stay in their own country, we ain’t got enough homes for us.’

‘But some of them need to come here, they have no place else―’

‘It’s the third fucking world mate, it’s never gonna change out there, them kids are always gonna be covered in flies and starving; it’s the way of the world.’

‘I don’t know how you can say that, at the end of the twentieth century and you still―’

‘Look mate, they’re just here for an easy life, I say put em all together, put em with their own kind, they’ll be happier, you know what it’s like, I had some black bastards move in down the road, a kiddy on the way, before long the whole fucking street’ll be black; they’ll change the culture of the country.’

‘But for some if they stay in their own country they face persecution―they could be tortured or killed.’

‘Yeah and so what? Let them die, they’re the one’s that think they’re going to a better world, better that than coming here and stealing my fucking taxes. Bleeding the country dry those cunts.’

‘But what about the racial diversity that contributes to our culture… our,’ he almost spits out the next word, ‘economy… What about their human rights?’

‘Human rights? What about my fucking human rights? I mean I’m not a racist but Jesus Christ, they’re the ones that cover their women up, imagine what it must be like for them to see a tasty young bit of stuff down the beach, that fucking scares me, and it should you too, a young daughter like that, I mean they’ve all got the AIDS ain’t they.’

Fat Cunt’s shaking his head, his mouth agape, his piggy eyes darting about as if searching for understanding but finding none, ‘You’re a very stupid man,’ he counters, ‘a very stupid―’

Pete’s pint smashes across the right side of his face and opens his cheek up a treat, Fat Cunt falls to the floor screaming and Pete drops the rest of his glass. A nasty shard is sticking out of Pete’s palm and when he pulls it out a fair bit of claret gushes out, he grabs a semi-clean bar towel and binds his hands tightly as the barman rushes up, shouting, ‘What the fuck just happened here?’

No cunt says a word but Pete’s quick on his feet as usual, ‘This beast’s been touching the wife’s boy up; the cunt showed no remorse,’ he says, turning and spitting on Fat Cunt for effect, ‘best call the cunt an ambulance,’ and Pete manages his best shit-eating grin, ‘and mine’s a fresh Kronenbourg mate.’

 

6

Pete won those pork chops after all, fucking lovely, he’ll get the wife to cook those up for his Sunday dinner.

No one said fuck all to the old bill so Pete’ll just have to wait and see how that one turns out. Fat cunt got taken away to casualty. His wife didn’t look so shit hot herself, following out, looking numb, walking quickly with her head down, ignoring Pete and holding her daughter’s arm, ‘Better get a lock on your girl’s door,’ Pete shouted after her, acting upset, ‘your fella might not just like other people’s kids,’ and a few of the lads patted Pete on the back, murmuring tense words of support.

Pete buys the barman a drink, he’s an alright sort and agrees he was in the right to glass a beast; Pete swigs his lager and muses to himself that Fat Cunt’s face probably won’t get the chance to heal. Fucking deserved it though didn’t he, who the fuck does he think he is? If he thinks like a wog then his daughter must too, Pete had best keep his son away from that kind of spastic fucking thinking. The boy? Well he’s old enough to know better, he’ll probably head back to his roots, it’s natural for their kind.

Pete asks the wife where she thinks he gets it from but she ain’t got a fucking clue, neither’s the Father, never knew his own Dad, so the boy’s the bastard of a bastard, no fucking wonder, his Grandfather probably really did come up on a fucking banana boat!

But Pete didn’t, oh fucking no―Pete knows the boy better than he knows himself.

 

7

Well, an entertaining night after all, the wife’s in a worse state than fucking Russia so Pete practically has to carry her home. His son and the boy walk up ahead so Pete pushes her into the alley at the top of the road for a quick feel, she’s not really up for it though and he needs a piss so says, ‘You just wait love,’ and smells his fingers as they walk back.

Pete says good night to his son and looks in on the boy, he’s reading that perverted Stephen King crap again. Pete notices the boy’s eye starting to come up purple in the lamplight, ‘You had a fight with your brother,’ he says, and stares at him till he meets his eyes and looks away; the little faggot gets the idea.

The wife’s asleep on top of the duvet―a fucking wreck she is―Pete takes off her shoes and throws them aside, then off with her jacket and up with her skirt. He tears her tights at the seam to make it easier to get a couple of fingers in and still no response but no resistance either so he pulls down his trousers and roughly turns his wife over to spread an arse that’s seen better days.

After a few minutes Pete realises she’s sobbing, he strokes her hair, telling her to shush and finishes off thinking about the sweet arse of Fat Cunt’s unripe daughter, and grunting, ‘Christ… I haven’t fucking had it in ages.’

Pete pulls out and rolls over tugging the duvet from under the wife, she’s still fully clothed so she won’t freeze, her sobs are gentle, like a lullaby.

He sleeps like a fucking log.

 

Pages taken from ‘Svineriet’. Paperback available to buy online.

Tags: Alcohol, Britain, Dinosaurs, Fiction, Portsmouth